The Sea

Her mind hung suspended in the air like the egg, and as the egg sploshed sunny-side down onto the worn carpet, her body hurtled out of the front door and down the Sunday-empty street. Each foot hit the pavement with a decisive “fuck you,” and another and another, “fuck you, fuck you.” The seagulls yelled, the door slammed. She swerved into the path at the side of the souvenir shop with its sorry collection of empty buckets and spades and headed for the dunes. She panted up them, her feet dragging her down now rather than pushing her along. Reaching the top she sank face first into the sand, the sea's massive dark yawns and white sighs washing through her and down her face, “I won't cry, I refuse,” she pounded her fists into the unsatisfyingly soft sand. She sobbed until her breathing slowed and something was spent inside.

Over the dunes, across the beach and up the deserted path she pushed open the cabin door, not locked, a good sign. She expected him to be there, but there was no light on. She fumbled for the switch, the single bulb sent out a dying light, his books were on the table, his glasses too. She walked over and sat down, everything was calm here, it wasn't just the sea sounds, or the soft light, it was the way his presence softened the space. She flipped one of the open books over, she was surprised he was reading Madame Bovary. Thinking she heard him, she turned around, the room had changed color, the clouds had lifted and the early evening light spread itself across the room, the sea was groaning, the walls were whispering, then the voices came seeping through the cracks in the ceiling, the bed moaned, the voices got louder, she was drowning, she turned and ran towards the sea.